


The Griffin

by bowlingfornerds



Series: long fics [1]
Category: The 100
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Clarke's journey after the Mountain, F/M, Fluff, Grounder Clarke, Post Season 2, Post canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Griffin,” Clarke continued. “Has a legend attached to her; she fell from the sky and soared above the plains; mighty wings that held her aloft and protected her from the flames that she burnt men alive with.” Clarke had heard the story of herself so many times, hell – she’d lived it – but it was nothing like this. </p><p>Clarke leaves Camp Jaha after the Mountain falls, and finds herself joining a nomadic Grounder clan. Then, one day, out in the woods, she finds the delinquents again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY  
> THIS IS A 10K, 2 PART FIC. I HAVE WRITTEN THE OTHER PART, DON'T WORRY AND I'M SUPER PROUD BECAUSE I SUCK AT WRITING CANON UNIVERSE. Everything up to the hiatus is canon in this story, so no worries there.
> 
> PLEASE ENJOY.

Clarke’s lips covered the opening to the water skin, and she tipped her head back, gulping down the water. Next to her, Luna crouched, waiting.

“For the Wanheda, you are terrible at covering ground,” she commented in perfect English. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“I’m not the Wanheda,” she retorted, but it didn’t matter because Clarke and Luna had been having this argument for the last year of her life. She knew what her friend was going to say next and she mouthed alongside it.

“No, you’re the Griffin,” Luna replied, in sync with Clarke. The latter of the two women shoved the water skin back into her bag and they continued onwards, trudging through the undergrowth. “You know, Aron nearly shit himself over meeting you.” Clarke scoffed. “It’s true – you’re the Griffin, he’d heard about you and your powers.”

“I have no powers,” Clarke replied with a sigh but no heat.

“Well _I_ know that,” Luna said, climbing over a fallen tree. “But the rest of the Trikru don’t – they still think you’re the thing of legends.”

“I’m not a legend,” Clarke sighed. “I’m a killer – those shouldn’t be synonyms.” Luna glanced at her, confused for a moment before the blonde shrugged. “Synonym – two words that mean the same thing. Like ‘brilliant’ and ‘terrific’ – ‘killing’ and ‘legend’ aren’t.” Luna nodded carefully, storing the information away. She was a little younger that Clarke, seventeen to Clarke’s nineteen, but taller. Her hair was as dark as any of the grounders and her arm already bore a tribal tattoo.

“Well that’s not what Heda says,” Luna continued. “She didn’t like people calling you Wanheda – sure – but even she admits that you have power.”

“Once again,” Clarke corrected, irritated by her friend’s insistence. “I have no power – I just pulled a couple of levers. I made a few tough calls – you know, I wasn’t even the one to do all the leg work.”

“But they say you flew down from the sky-“

“I did,” Clarke agreed, rolling her eyes. She’d been over this a thousand times. “But that’s because all of the Sky People did – it was in a space ship and we all landed on the ground.”

“But you survived.”

“One hundred of us survived,” Clarke argued. “I’m one in one hundred – that’s not a feat.” Luna dropped the subject, but only when they heard rustling in the woods. Both immediately fell into a crouching position; hiding amongst the bushes to search for the animal. Luna and Clarke had been sent out to hunt – something Clarke was happy to do after spending the last week in the healing tent, barely seeing sunlight after a few people caught a nasty illness. She missed being out in the woods; feeling the breeze on her skin and the fresh air fill her lungs.

She watched carefully; her eyes searching for movement, but none came. The rustling stopped and both girls waited a moment longer before rising. Luna stepped cautiously forward first, before Clarke followed.

“You slayed the Mountain,” Luna continued, unperturbed. Clarke rolled her eyes, following her friend down a slight hill. She hated hearing about the Mountain; it didn’t haunt her nightmares as often, now, but she still regretted their deaths; regretted hurting Jasper like that. She had liked Maya, and look where that had gotten her. Clarke bit her tongue and forced herself to respond.

“I didn’t do that alone,” she bit out. It had taken her months to admit; after wandering the woods by herself for a long while, a nomadic clan accepted her within their ranks, already hearing of her legacy. Even then, she carried the guilt by herself; Clarke had racked her brain daily for other ways of saving those people – but, one day, she stopped. She realised that Monty had figured out how to let the radiation in, even if she had asked him to. Bellamy – she shivered at the thought of him – had pulled the lever with her, even if it was just to make sure she didn’t go at it alone. Lexa had left her, and so did her army. Clarke knew she was not the only one at fault, any more.

“You commanded them,” Luna replied absently, checking the bow and arrow in her arms, making sure it was still notched. Clarke hefted her spear, annoyed by the directness of Luna’s demeanour. She never beat around the bush and Clarke wondered if she knew how awfully her words hurt. (She reminded Clarke of Raven, in that way – but those were more thoughts that she shoved aside.)

Clarke didn’t respond, so they kept hunting for dinner, treading carefully, lightly, like she’d learnt to. Then there was rustling again and the girls ducked once more. Clarke changed her grip on her spear – ready to throw at any moment – and Luna drew back the string of her arrow.  The rustling grew closer; heavy footsteps – it must have been a boar, she guessed.

Luna pulled back on the string, and Clarke caught sight of the target first. It was a man, but Luna had already narrowed her eyes – unknowing it wasn’t an animal. Clarke shoved her, last second, and the arrow soared through the air. Clarke’s head shot around to watch where it landed, and the cry of pain reached her ears.

“What the- Clarke!” Clarke was already up and running towards the person, staggering backwards, ignoring Luna’s words. He had an arrow in his shoulder and Clarke reached him, staring at the wound.

“Fucking hell, Luna!” She yelled back, staring at the arrow. Luna pushed her way out from the bushes, jogging over. Clarke noticed absently that there was more than one person, and they were walking over. But, she wasn’t afraid and Clarke didn’t know why. “You have to look at what you’re shooting-“ she shoved her friend again and Luna rolled her eyes. “That is a human being! Not a boar!”

“I’m not a boar,” the man agreed, in a voice that was all too familiar. Clarke’s head whipped around, staring at the face she had come to trust so long ago. His expression wasn’t dark – but, it wasn’t thankful to see her. She couldn’t imagine hers was much better; her face open with surprise. “But you already knew that,” Bellamy grunted. Clarke swallowed a few times, looking between Luna and Bellamy before nudging the girl again.

“Apologise,” she instructed. Luna rolled her eyes, having not brought up in the manner that shooting arrows at humans was something to be sorry about.

“I am sorry,” Luna told Bellamy in a monotone voice. “But I would like my arrow back, all the same.” In front of her, Bellamy scoffed.

“Oh yeah!” He replied sarcastically. “Let me just get that for you.” Clarke sighed, looking around for a moment and noticing fully that he wasn’t alone. A few metres away, staring in shock, was Miller and Monroe, both holding guns; the former with her hair in braids like Clarke remembered, and the latter wearing a beanie once more – something Clarke hadn’t realised she’d missed until that moment.

“Sit down,” Clarke told him. “I’ll get the arrow out.” Bellamy eyed her for a moment and she schooled her expressions, so he couldn’t see how close she was to hugging the three Arkers. He did what she said, though – which surprised her – and sat with his back against the nearest tree. “Luna, heat up a blade so I can cauterise it – and learn to aim.” Luna shoved her before rummaging around in her pack, while Clarke knelt beside Bellamy.

She forced herself to stare at the wound, not his face, and noticed that it pierced two layers of clothing. She wrinkled up her nose in annoyance.

“Am I going to die, doc?” He asked and Clarke glanced up at his all-too-near face, to find him already looking at her with a dry expression.

“No,” she replied. “Unless infection sets in that is.” She waited for Luna to say that the blade was heated up in silence; Clarke studied his face for a moment while he looked pointedly away. His hair was shorter than the last time she’d seen him, a year beforehand; more like the length it was when they first reached the ground. The rest of him looked the same; same eyes, same freckles, same scar above his lip – she gritted her teeth when she looked away; Clarke was already feeling the yearning inside her to return to Camp Jaha, just by being near him.

“Ready, Wanheda,” Luna announced, and Clarke sent her a glare – something that all three delinquents most definitely caught.

“Stop calling me that,” Clarke hissed, before turning back to the arrow wound.

“Wanheda,” Bellamy mused, as Clarke lifted her hands to hold the shaft of the arrow. “Commander of Death.”

“Looks like Octavia’s taught you a thing or two,” Clarke muttered, bracing one hand on his shoulder. She glanced at him to find a single surprised eyebrow raised, before Clarke yanked her hand back, pulled the arrow cleanly out of the wound. Bellamy swore, keeling forward, and Clarke held him back against the tree. She scrambled her hands across his shoulder, pulling back his jacket and t-shirt to reveal the wound as Luna jumped in, pressing the blade against the wound. Her old friend cried out in pain, only to resort to heavy breathing when Luna moved the blade away.

“Thanks,” he gritted out.

“Anytime,” Luna replied happily, throwing the blade into the ground as it cooled. Clarke shifted to sit beside him, back against the tree and she briefly thought of Dax, dead on the ground in front of them, instead of an asshole grounder cleaning her arrow. She remembered her giving him forgiveness because he thought he was a monster – well, she was the monster now. How times had changed.

Miller and Monroe approached slowly while Bellamy regained his regular breathing. The two of Bellamy’s militia sat on the ground. Monroe spoke first.

“You’ve been so close to camp all this time?” She asked quietly, confused. Clarke shrugged.

“I don’t know where I am, to be honest,” she sighed. “The clan I travel with – they’re nomadic and change locations every few days. I didn’t know I was near Camp Jaha again.”

“If she had, she wouldn’t have joined them,” Bellamy hissed. Clarke just tensed her jaw and pretended not to have heard him, even if the other three had.

“Are you going to come back with us?” Miller asked next. Clarke didn’t reply at first, just shifted where she sat and glanced up at the leaves above them; the trees her friends in their clan had been teaching her to scale.

“I don’t know,” Clarke replied eventually. “You don’t need me anymore, and I found a place that just might.”

“We need you,” Miller said immediately.

“So much,” Monroe agreed. Bellamy said nothing, just stood up and flexed his arm, even if he winced in pain. Clarke shook her head.

“It’s been a year. I’m sure you guys are doing fine without me.”

“Well, yeah,” Miller nodded. “But it’s not the same. Jaha’s dead, you know?” Clarke’s eyes widened and she sat forward. Monroe nodded suddenly.

“Yeah! He reached the City of Light with Murphy, went insane – Murphy’s back now, but we had this all-out war with _actual_ artificial technology.” Clarke raised her eyebrows, wondering how many people died – how many more would have if she had been involved.

“And Monty perfected his moonshine; but there’s been no real competition at beer pong-“ Clarke rolled her eyes.

“Even Bellamy needs help standing up to the council!” Monroe added, gesturing to their leader, pacing the clearing. Clarke didn’t have time to respond though, because he shot a look at them.

“All right! Miller! Monroe! We’re heading back! Try and shoot something on the way, but I’m useless without my arm.” The two sent an apologetic look at Clarke and the three stood up. Monroe smiled warmly, seemingly over Clarke’s departure a year beforehand, but Miller glanced back at Bellamy, instead. When he was sure that the older Blake wasn’t watching, he darted forward, wrapping Clarke in a quick embrace.

“We miss you,” he whispered into her ear, before pulling away and jogging after the other two. Clarke watched them leave before Luna stood up.

“Those were your friends?” She asked. Clarke nodded silently, as Luna looped her arm through the blonde’s, pulling her back in the direction they were walking. Clarke couldn’t help but turn and try and spot them in the woods, only to come up empty handed. “Well you’ve got me, now,” Luna continued. “And I’m more attractive than any of them.” Clarke didn’t disagree out loud, but Bellamy flashed before her eyes once more and she hefted her spear.

-

That evening, Clarke sat by the fire. Luna had already taken the food that Clarke was willing to let go cold, and she sat in silence, her friend’s voice monopolising their conversation, anyway. Luna was very different from other grounders, Clarke had noticed early on. She was louder, happier, less serious than others, like Indra whose monotonous voice was seared into her mind. Luna was talking about Aron, and something to do with hunting, maybe fighting, Clarke wasn’t sure, but her mind was back at Camp Jaha.

Her mind was with Bellamy; his cold expression that she understood so well, even after this time apart. It was back with Monroe’s warm smile and brains, finger on the trigger of a gun she had mastered within hours. It was back with Miller and his hug, his beanie, his attitude and begrudging respect that he’d had for her since she saved him from being caught for stealing, the first time, up on the Ark.

It was back with Octavia, who no doubt still hated her, and Raven with her snarky quips and braced leg. She thought about Jasper and the way he must still despise her for what she did to Maya, to his girlfriend. Monty, and the way they said goodbye at the gate, quiet words and well wishes. Her mind even stretched to Murphy, sharp words and sharper teeth, blood dripping from his fingers, his neck – the way he looked when Charlotte threw herself from the cliff face. Her mother and her healing hands, stern looks, high expectations that Clarke either couldn’t live up to, or soared past – either way pissing Abby off.

Lastly, she thought of Thelonious, probably dead in the ground now, and Wells, with him. Her best friend and saviour, the boy with the chess games and earth skills – who kissed her once in the library and let her apologise and leave even if it wasn’t her fault. Clarke stayed silent, glancing away from the fire and to Luna, unaware of her thoughts racing, the pull in her waist – the invisible rope that she was sure lead straight back to Camp Jaha.

-

Clarke left at dawn, because last time she left it was in the afternoon, and leaving at dawn felt more dramatic. She left without speaking to Luna, because she knew that the only thing her friend would say was that she was being stupid, and she wrote a quick note, leaving it in her cabin, that informed them that she was going back to the Sky People – she missed them – but she would probably join back up with the clan in a matter of days; she had their map, after all.

Clarke trekked through the forest for a few hours, before she found camp. The clearing was just as she remembered it, when she left before; she remembered where the horses, messengers on their backs, galloped, and where, just over the ridge, she had killed Finn. Clarke stood at the edge of the clearing, where Anya was shot and swallowed, glancing away from the ground and to the space – where the tents of Lexa’s command had been set up, a year before.

Then she pushed forward, into the light.

Clarke raised her hands above her head when the guns were pointed at her, when they asked for identification she yelled her name back, defiant, strong. _Clarke Griffin,_ because she had returned home. There was a different feeling, she noticed, when she announced her name and the gates opened for her.

There was a different feeling being Clarke Griffin, rather than _the_ Griffin. She was a girl who had lead an army; a survivor of a child who grew up too fast, not a mythical beast, not a legend like she was thought to be.

Clarke took a breath before heading into camp and she felt the world pause. It was like time stopped, maybe rewound because everything was exactly as she remembered it, just a little less broken, but most definitely stopped because no one moved besides her. Working halted and the guards watched her, guns lowered, eyes wide. Then someone yelled, people were jostled and Raven, crutches under her arms, brace – new and improved – on her leg, pushed through the crowd.

She tackled Clarke into a hug, laughing and crying into the blonde’s hair and Clarke couldn’t do anything but hold her back. She grinned into Raven’s shoulder, and then the voices rose and people yelled; called; shouted _Clarke’s back, Clarke’s back, Clarke’s back_. Even when Raven pulled away, Clarke didn’t let go, because she’d left her friend’s presence before and she refused to do it again.

As she was bombarded with people, Clarke kept one arm around Raven, her anchor, holding her down and stopping her from running back into the woods again. Monty rushed up to her and squeezed her for all he was worth; even Miller and Monroe came running, greeting, grinning. Harper hugged her, David Miller hugged her – _Lincoln_ hugged her, his presence warm and comforting.

She noticed Jasper and her arm finally fell from Raven, because he hesitated before hugging her but _he hugged her all the same_. She whispered her apologies into his hair, shaggy like she remembered it, but shorter, as if he’d cut it. He held her tighter and his tears stained her skin; clean but burning and she knew there would be marks because of them that would never go away.

When he pulled away, a watery smile to match her own, he was pushed aside by a woman. Her mother, Abby Griffin, was older than she remembered; her hair lighter and her skin more tanned. There was a permanent frown line on her forehead that Clarke hadn’t seen before, and her mother looked like she’d been beaten down by the stress, but kept getting up to greet it each morning anyway.

Clarke hugged her like she would never let go.

-

Clarke saw Murphy at lunch. She’d already been taken around the camp; been shown all the old places, what was new, what was improved – she’d received more hugs than she had ever before, and Clarke wondered if her absence was obvious in the camp, if she was missed this much before they remembered her existence.

Murphy was in the meat hut, smoking the meat to preserve it, and Clarke only ducked her head in to look around; not wanting to the smell of smoke to follow her. Murphy saw her anyway and followed her out, and Clarke noticed that Raven hobbled away to give them room to talk.

“The prodigal Princess returns,” Murphy drawled, stepping out into the fresh air. Clarke frowned, watching for a moment as he breathed like he’d missed air that wasn’t made of smoke, and ran a hand through his hair.

“What a welcome,” she replied evenly.

“You received a pretty big one out there,” he noted, pointing towards the gates. “Thought you would want a reprieve.” Clarke rolled her eyes, but couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

“You work in the meat hut?” She asked, changing the subject. He glanced behind him, nodding.

“Step up from being a janitor.”

“How did you get promoted?” He scoffed.

“Saved the world, or something,” he shrugged.

“You would think,” Clarke mused. “If you saved the world, you’d get a better job than meat hut.” Murphy cracked a smile, shaking his head.

“I said ‘or something’, right?” The two smiled at each other; heart-breakingly familiar, but also so dangerous. His smile was kind, though, which was something Clarke didn’t know he was capable of. He opened his mouth to speak but she shook her head.

“Don’t say ‘bygones’,” Clarke said. He shut his mouth. “Last time you said that you killed two people.” Murphy nodded, understanding, and looked away.

“I won’t say it, then,” he replied. “But I’m trying to change, at least. Let me try.” She studied him for a moment, eyeing his skin and the jagged scars that crosshatched over it – but nothing was new. There was no blood, no dirt and grime. He reminded Clarke of the boy she’d seen on the first day from the drop ship – the one with clear skin and a scowl. But, now, he was beaten and rough, with pale lines and braided hair. He was so similar to the one that had all the potential to be a good guy, but all the potential to be bad as well – he’d already done the latter, Clarke swallowed. She might as well give him the chance to try the former.

Clarke nodded, her mouth a thin line and Murphy let out a relieved smile, even if it was small. They parted ways, without another word, Murphy back into the smoke and Clarke back to Raven.

-

Bellamy was, understandably, avoiding her.

Clarke didn’t try to seek him out.

-

She ate dinner with them; a real meal and not meat on a stick like she’d eaten for the past year. Clarke had a _plate_ now. She sat with the friends she used to have, and wondered if she could still call them that; if they would protest if she said otherwise. She spotted Octavia, sitting with Lincoln at another fire, and decided not to go over. Both of the Blakes were ignoring her, and while it irked Clarke on some foundational level, she decided to leave it be.

She was only going to be there for a few days, it wouldn’t hurt, she thought.

The next day she sat with Raven in her lab, watching her build, and then with Monty and the farm they had started. She looked over the huts that Miller was leading the building of, and the designs, wrinkling her nose until he asked what was wrong. She told him how the grounders had different fixings in the corners, so they wouldn’t break in the wind, and watched as he leant over his designs and took them to Raven, and sighed repeatedly until they were changed.

Clarke sat in the medbay and watched her mother work; silently, like a ghost, observing all that she left behind. People talked to her and she talked back; told them the basics of her time away, the clan she found, the people she healed, the tattoo that banded around her arm. Lincoln poked at it with a smile, and told anyone who’d come near that she was branded a healer – that the marks symbolised the lives she’d saved and that they had accepted her as one of their own.

Clarke watched the guard training from a distance. Unlike the other places she’d been where she sat up close and personal, watching their hands move precisely, Clarke sat away from the action, not wanting to be noticed at all. She watched Bellamy move along the line, training cadets and adjusting the way they held their guns. Clarke sighed all the while because _she missed him_ no matter how much she didn’t want to. Clarke Griffin was stuck on Bellamy Blake, and the feel of her lips against his cheek from a year before.

-

She was getting ready to leave when Bellamy approached her at last. Clarke hadn’t told anyone she’d be leaving again, but everyone knew that she hadn’t unpacked, and that she refused an actual bed. She hadn’t worn any of their clothes and her braids were still intact – it was obvious that her being back was temporary.

So Clarke didn’t understand why he came to her, because Bellamy could have waited another night and she would be gone.

“Hi,” he announced, standing at the doorway of Raven’s tent. Clarke was sharing with her, and the other girl was gone for dinner. She looked up, surprised.

“Hi,” Clarke replied. Bellamy entered without asking, having to duck because of the height of the material, eventually giving up and sitting down next to her on the bed. Clarke noticed the gap between their bodies, though.

They didn’t speak at first. Clarke knew he wouldn’t have come without having something to say, and refused to speak until he did – but Bellamy was forming his words and she glanced over, watching him furrow his brow.

“Would you have come back if you hadn’t found us in the woods?” He asked at last, and Clarke hesitated, looking away from his freckled skin and to the door of the tent; half open and letting in white light amongst the red and orange hues of the fabric.

“Eventually, yes,” she replied. “But I didn’t know I was nearby until I saw you.” Bellamy nodded, more to himself than to her, and Clarke waited for the next question because this was bound to be an interrogation. The others had thrown questions at her from left and right; where did you stay, who did you meet, have you seen Lexa again, and Clarke dodged or answered with perfect accuracy. She expected Bellamy to be the same.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said quietly, and that was a bigger shock than seeing him in the woods. Clarke stared at him whilst he looked pointedly ahead. Then he left without another word.

-

So, Clarke was _going_ to leave the next morning, at dawn, because she refused to leave at any other time, anymore, but she didn’t. She refused this being anything to do with Bellamy talking to her, and instead claimed it to be because she missed all of her friends, and she could catch up with the clan.

But, when she glanced at the map that she’d stored in her bag, she noticed that she only had another day before she’d be too far behind to catch up easily. Clarke pushed those thoughts away, though, and had two meals served for her, at breakfast, and gave one to Bellamy who was standing in the queue, before walking away and sitting down.

A moment later, he was beside her, looking apprehensive. “You didn’t have to,” he told her, settling into his food anyway.

“But I did,” she replied with a shrug. That was all there was and Clarke sat, talking and listening, listening and talking as people joined and left throughout the breakfast period. She noticed, as she sat there, that this was different to the way she sat with the grounders – there, Luna did all the talking, and Clarke would eat quickly, so she could leave and focus on her work. Here, they sat together, happy, joking, stretching out this time for as long as possible before having to go back to their productive lives.

Also, Clarke noticed that Bellamy didn’t get up to leave until she did, and he took her plate back, too.

-

Clarke spent her morning watching Bellamy train guards – up close, this time. She wasn’t as worried as before, and sat, cross-legged, a book and a pencil, drawing the cadets, the guns, Bellamy, as they worked. It was relaxing – she didn’t often get to draw anymore. Drawing was mainly for maps and for showing the Commander, or clan leader pictures of the enemy – she didn’t get to do it just to calm her mind.

Then Bellamy asked if she wanted to give it a try, while the guards took a break, and she shrugged. Clarke stepped up to the mark, holding the gun as Bellamy stood behind her, tilting her arm.

“Like this,” he said, softly, still an edge to his voice like he wasn’t sure if he’d forgiven her or not. She paused before squeezing the trigger, and laughed. “What?” Clarke looked round to him, confusion etched across his face.

“Do you remember the bunker?” She asked, smiling warmly. He paused before exhaling a tiny smile.

“We did exactly this,” he replied, shaking his head. Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, pushing the curls out of his eyes. “You were a terrible shot.”

“Hey!”

“But I _guided_ you to being good,” he continued. “Are we going to have to start the progress all over again?” Clarke rolled her eyes, turning back to the target, and adjusting her hand over the gun.

“It’s only been a year,” she replied. “I think I can remember.” The weight that fell upon them was obvious, but Clarke just swallowed and pushed through it. Only a year, she told herself. Not that long, in the great scheme of things. When she pulled the trigger, she watched the bullets ricochet off the wooden pole – she hit the edges; not really a good shot, but not terrible either. “I’m better with a spear,” she mused, looking back to Bellamy. He rolled his eyes.

“From what I remember, you were better with a pistol.” The dark joke was not lost on her, and Clarke wasn’t sure if it had been long enough to make them, but she cracked a smile anyway. It felt sick, thinking about the shooter she’d killed with a bullet through Lincoln before him, or Dante in the control room of Mount Weather. But she smiled and shot a couple more bullets, Bellamy watching from behind.

-

Eventually, though, they had to talk.

It was that evening and Clarke was packing again. He came into the tent like the night before and didn’t stop to say hello.

“Why did you leave?” He asked loudly, and Clarke stared at him, in shock before replying.

“You know why,” she replied. He huffed, shutting his eyes tightly.

“I know what you said,” he retorted. “You bare it so they don’t have to. But a _year_? You had to bare it for a _year_?” She watched him, angry and pacing, even with his head ducked to accommodate the ceiling. “I pulled the lever, too, Clarke! I killed those people, too! Jasper just ran up to you and it was all forgiven – I had to _force_ him to listen to me, I had to deal with him shaving his head and running off into the woods, _doing a Clarke_ , as they called it.” She winced there. “And I had to follow him all the way back to the Mountain – _eight fucking hours_ , Clarke! I had to go _back_ to my demons; I may have told Charlotte – who I helped _kill_ , by the way – that you should slay your demons while you’re awake, so they can’t get you when they sleep, but I _slayed_ them, Clarke. _We_ slayed those demons together, and they got me when I slept every night.

“ _I_ had to earn Jasper’s forgiveness. _I_ had to watch him and Monty not speak, and _I_ had to fight for our rights to be treated like adults, not children in this camp. _I_ had to keep the forty four alive – forty one, now, by the way. _I_ protected them after the Mountain, _I_ led them when they weren’t listening to the council – you could have done that with me. I did all this shit with you Clarke, for these people. I did so much to get them here, like you did. I remember what I did every day – I remember the lives I took, the children – _fuck_ , Clarke, the kids in that Mountain. The boy whose father I killed, and then killed him with the radiation, too.” She hadn’t heard that story and Clarke swallowed, biting back her tears, while Bellamy seemed to be doing the same. “I held all that, and I came back to camp, too. Why couldn’t you?”

They sat in silence then and Clarke let the tears run riot. Bellamy stared at her, and she covered her face with her hands because why couldn’t she? Why was she weaker than him? Why did she have to run off, and leave Bellamy by himself, leading these people?

She felt the bed lower, next to her, and an arm wrap around her shoulders. Bellamy pulled her into his chest and they rocked together, his lips on the top of her head and Clarke crying into his shirt.

“Sorry,” he said eventually. “I had to get it out.” She nodded, into his jacket. “I wish you hadn’t left,” he sighed. “I wish you hadn’t left _me_.” And that was it, really. She had left all the people that she’d worked so hard to save, but she’d also left the one person she trusted more than anything. The person who trusted her back, and could hold her while she cried and still believed that she was strong.

“Me too,” she whispered back. And she did.

-

Clarke didn't leave the next day, either, and instead burnt the map in the flames that cooked their breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING SO FAR.  
> This is the second, and last, installment, so thanks for reading, thanks for coming back if you read a chapter yesterday. I've had this idea knocking around for some time, so it feels good to write it.

It’s okay for the following weeks. Clarke and Bellamy built up their friendship again; they learned to trust one another, smile more than tentatively and let the other help when they’re stuck. She let him teach her how to use a gun again, and she let him card his fingers through her hair, pulling out the braids that held her hair back in a crown for so long now.

The day she lost the braids, Octavia spoke to her for the first time.

“You’re back,” she noted.

“I’ve been back for a while,” Clarke said calmly, furrowing her brow. Octavia just smiled, reaching up her hand and pulling on a wavy lock of blonde hair.

“No, you haven’t,” she replied.

-

Of course, with everything going so well, something had to go wrong.

Clarke waited for the storm because the calm had stretched on long enough; she waited for the war, for the broken limbs, for someone to fly into a rage and attack her. But Murphy was telling the truth when he said he was trying to be good, and he didn’t get into a fight for two weeks, and Bellamy had gotten his hurt out of his system and Octavia didn’t glare anymore because she must have understood what Clarke went through, and that no one could bounce back so easily.

Clarke attended council meetings during the period of calm, because she was back and she didn’t mean to resume her role as a leader, but people came to her with problems, still. They asked her to represent them alongside Bellamy in the council, they asked her for advice, permission she had no authority to give.

Clarke spoke to her mother and asked why, but all Abby could do was shrug. “You were their leader once,” she sighed. “I suppose they still see you as such.”

She couldn’t really complain, though. She was only the leader before because she thought they needed someone with a level head to lead them; but they had camp now. Camp Jaha had a council and no one was in immediate danger.  They had Bellamy, too; so far from the boy who cried out for whatever the hell we want. But Clarke felt right, when they placed the crown back on her head – because leading came naturally to her; having the weight of so many on her shoulders was like a familiar blanket, pulling it tight around her body. As long as there were no wars, she would happily wear it, Clarke realised.

Then came the storm.

-

“Stop!” The orders from the gates could be heard from the fire pit, where Monty was throwing pieces of food at Clarke, happily, and she was trying to catch them in her mouth. Her head shot around to the sound of the noise, and a piece of wild bird hit her in the cheek.

“Hey,” she complained quietly, listening as the guards asked the strangers to give over their names. She couldn’t hear the reply, but through the metal of the gate she could see the clothes; grounders, dark colours, on foot and on horseback. She frowned before standing.

Clarke had returned only for a month, she wasn’t liking how quickly they were starting another problem. She absently wondered if war was attracted to her like a moth to a flame; they did so well with her gone, they fought _artificial technology_ and won with minimal deaths. Clarke wondered if she would have to leave if another war started.

The gates opened only when Abby and Marcus were ready; standing tall and strong, a united force, against the grounders. Clarke found herself flanking Abby, and Bellamy on Marcus’ far side. It was odd; these positions they moved themselves into with no consideration – no one objected or wondered what they were doing there. To Camp Jaha, this was natural. Their leaders were whole again.

The gate was pulled open by guards and Clarke’s eyes widened at the sight of the grounders. It was her clan – or, well, the clan that took her in. They had all of their things on their backs, she noticed; moving along like she had with them, horses pulling carriages and looking largely unthreatening, besides the spears in their hands.

At the front was their leader; an ageing man named Ahtil. Many grounders would not live to an old age, but they were a peaceful clan, and let him continue on. He hobbled forward a little, nodding towards the Chancellors of Camp Jaha. Ahtil opened his mouth to say something, but it was a girl’s voice who cried happily.

“Clarke!” Luna came running forward, and the guards raised their guns. Someone called for her to freeze and she did, suddenly, staring with wide eyes at the weapons aimed at her. Clarke swallowed, knowing eyes were on her, as she moved out from beside her mother. Abby’s hand caught her arm for just a moment, and her daughter smiled reassuringly before heading over to her friend.

Luna hugged her, strong and steady, the warrior she was, even when the guns were still pointing at her. Abby called for the weapons to be lowered, so Clarke smiled at her friend.

“Nice greeting party,” Luna said sarcastically. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“The note said you’d come back.” Clarke froze before nodding. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.” She didn’t know if they were being loud; if anyone could hear their conversation, so with an arm around Luna, she lead them both back to the clan. When they reached Ahtil, Luna drifted her fingers carefully through Clarke’s hair. They felt different to Bellamy’s; smaller, softer, more in awe than practical.

“You took out your braids,” she noted gently. Clarke nodded as Luna’s fingers ran through her hair, and then dropped to her side. “Why?” Clarke didn’t say anything, though.

“Because she’s gone back to them,” Ahtil nodded. He didn’t seem upset, just disappointed, and Clarke didn’t want to wonder why. “She has gone back to the Sky People.” Luna’s expression turned confused, and she stepped away.

“I didn’t come back, Luna,” Clarke pleaded quietly. “These are my people.”

“ _We_ are your people,” Luna replied loudly. Clarke didn’t spare a glance for the Arkers, watching, or the clan, listening. “ _We_ took you in, Clarke! _I_ put those braids in your hair, _I_ taught you to use a spear, _I_ listened to you cry over your nightmares! Clarke!” This was sounding far too like Bellamy’s speech for Clarke, and she stilled, realising that both people had been upset over her leaving; both of them had trusted her and no matter what she chose, she was hurting people.

Clarke was sick of hurting people.

She swallowed, stepping away and glancing to the people by the gate, waiting. Bellamy frowned as he watched, and she caught sight of her friends, closing in on the gate with the other people of camp. Luna kept going though; she was nothing but erratic and Clarke had never learned to quieten her. Luna wasn’t the silent type of the other grounders; she wore her heart on her sleeve and that’s why she was in this clan. That’s why this clan was created, Clarke knew; a group of people coming together who had been ostracised from their own families, their own people. Clarke gritted her teeth as Luna went on.

“I know what happened in that Mountain because _you told me, Clarke_ – I know none of the names of these people, because you never brought them up. Clarke, what is important to you? You couldn’t be here so you came to us. What happened to make you leave? Clarke, what did I do?”

“You did nothing,” she replied calmly.

“Then why did you go back? _We_ accepted the Wanheda into our clan, even though there’s a curse on you – even though the Commander thought it best if we sent you back here, we let you stay because you were important to us. We are family, Wanheda.” Clarke didn’t even bother to correct her, she just nodded.

“We are,” she agreed. “But they are my family, too.” Luna looked towards Camp Jaha; to the people watching with interest and worry scratched in the lines of their faces; to the girl with a metal contraption around her leg, and the girl with Trikru braids but Skaikru clothes. She looked at the boy with goggles on his head, and those with guns at their sides; orange braids, a beanie, scars crosshatching across his face. Luna looked at the people, at the front, with their matching parental looks, and the man she’d shot, looking softer than she’d seen him before, but with fear in his eyes.

Then she looked back to Clarke.

“If they are your family,” she said slowly, carefully. “Then we are not.”

Luna turned and stormed away, marching, her bow in her hand, her braids flying. Clarke looked to Ahtil, smiling sadly.

“It was an honour to have you in our tribe,” he said, before turning away, too. One by one, the clan that had accepted her and nursed her back to health turned away from Camp Jaha, and started off back down the path to the woods.

“Hey!” Clarke called, and Ahtil looked back. “I thought you’d be in the Mountains, by now.” Ahtil nodded.

“We were. We reached Mount Weather and had to turn back; the ghosts still linger there. We decided to come by and bring you home, after.” Clarke watched, wondering if her home was truly with them or with the people behind her. She didn’t know if her home was with a girl with a bow and arrow, sharp words and hard shoves, or with the boy who stepped forward from the crowd and wrapped her in his arms as she watched them leave.

-

That wasn’t the storm. Not really.

The storm came when Ahtil returned, a week later, claiming Luna had been taken by the Commander’s forces to be executed for treason.

-

The arguing in the council went on for hours; minutes slipping by that weren’t helping Luna, but hurting her chances at survival. Clarke waited in her chair, butting in at every chance. The grounders were not her family, but her support – it was true that Luna had helped her through her nightmares, and braided her hair into a crown. She had been by her side when Clarke’s arm was tattooed and now she was going to be killed.

Ahtil stayed for the council meeting; his greying hair stark in comparison to his dark skin. Eventually, Clarke’s case won through.

“We don’t have the men to spare,” Abby complained, as Clarke grinned.

“I’ll take my friends,” she insisted, the word rolling off her tongue without a second thought. (They were her friends, she realised, but they were also her family.) “They know the terrain, too, we’ll be fine.”

An hour later, they were standing by the gate, and people were saying goodbye; holding the kids to their bodies and telling them to come back alive. Abby kissed her daughter’s cheek and nodded.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she instructed.

“Have you met me?” Clarke rolled her eyes. She and Bellamy took up the lead; falling into sync like they’d never been apart. He took slower steps to account for her shorter legs, and held the map, even though they both knew their way to TonDC. Behind her Octavia and Lincoln, lethal people with matching glares. Monroe and Miller took up the rear with their guns, and the six of them marched to their deaths.

-

The grounders of TonDC snarled at them; watching with enraged faces and weapons held in arm as they went past. They had rebuilt well, Clarke noticed; new huts lined the ground, built next to the crater that the missile made. In the hole, children ran about, knives in their hands, feral grins on their faces.

She recognised the Commander’s tent easily, and wondered why this was all coming back to her when she pushed it out of her mind with such force. Clarke kept her eyes peeled for Luna, but all she saw were those members of the clan, and Ahtil’s horse that he’d rode ahead on. They stopped by the tent, and a grounder glared before heading inside. When he re-emerged, he held the fabric of the door aside for them.

Inside was the war table; Commander Lexa in the middle and her people on either side. Indra stood far back; more bruised and bloody than last time Clarke had seen her, and she wondered absently how much longer that woman had. Ahtil stood closer, nodding to her when she entered with her friends.

“Clarke,” Lexa said in surprise. “I did not know you would be here.”

“You shouldn’t expect anything from me,” Clarke replied evenly, leaning her hands on the table as her friends filled in their side; Ahtil on her left, Bellamy on her right. “I’m full of surprises.” Lexa raised an eyebrow, before nodding.

“Fine. We’re here to discuss the execution of Luna.” Clarke nodded for her to go on, and she did, a little put out by taking orders from the tiny blonde. “She has been charged with treason; not only has she been accused of stealing from TonDC’s food supply, but she also went into the Mountain.” Clarke refused to look surprised. “The order on the Mountain has been that anyone who steps past the boundary is treasonous.”

“Where is your proof to Luna going into the Mountain?” Clarke asked first. Lexa gestured to the men, further down. Like them, they were stripped of their weapons at the entrance to TonDC – but she knew a warrior when she saw one.

“These are the witnesses, they brought the crime to my attention.” Clarke nodded, looking to Ahtil. There wasn’t much they could do, other than start another war in attempts to smuggle Luna out – and Clarke was not going to do that. She thought to how the grounders saw her, and decided that her authority might just rule out the Commander’s.

“Lexa,” she said, and Clarke saw the twitch in the Commander’s eye over not being addressed as her title. “I am here to make sure Luna is set free. So, that is what is going to happen, today.” Lexa raised a careful eyebrow while Indra snarled over Clarke’s disrespect.

“And why is that?”

“Because I am the Wanheda,” Clarke replied simply. “You may be in control of these people, but I am in control of their fates.  Luna is not going to be executed.” She wondered if there were storms in her eyes, because it felt like there were. She felt the eyes on her, begrudging respect, maybe, or fear from those who did not know her identity until now. “But more than that, I am the Griffin – and you would be foolish to stand in my way.”

“The Griffin,” one of the men repeated quietly. Miller and Monroe frowned and Bellamy looked down at her.

“What’s the Griffin?” He asked, as she smiled knowingly. Lexa glared.

“The _Griffin_ is a thing of legend,” she replied, annoyed. “My people have unwavering respect and awe for the beast that fell from the sky.” Clarke caught Bellamy’s eye for just a moment, and it was like he understood.

“The Griffin,” Clarke continued. “Has a legend attached to her; she fell from the sky and soared above the plains; mighty wings that held her aloft and protected her from the flames that she burnt men alive with.” Clarke had heard the story of herself so many times, hell – she’d lived it – but it was nothing like this. The way that her voice commanded respect, held an aura of mystery about it; telling a tale that she had hated for so long, but just might get Luna back to her.

“She was said to be the cross of a lion and an eagle; flying above her enemies, but attacking with ferocity. They say her powers let her control the lives of the people around her; she is said to have razed entire civilisations. She took down the Mountain with a flick of her wrist, freed her own people as well as the prisoners of yours.”

“The Griffin,” Lexa finished. “Is a myth for my people; a girl who holds all the powers of a beast. Immortal; cannot be killed if she controls life and death itself.”

“The Griffin,” the man in the corner said once more, in awe, eyes wide. She watched as he diverted his eyes, as he lowered himself to his knee. Indra snapped at him but he glared back. “You do not tempt death, itself,” he replied. The men by his side knelt too; the guards from the door; Ahtil, standing next to her. Eventually, her friends did the same, and Indra begrudgingly lowered her head. Then it was just Lexa and Clarke, standing.

“I don’t believe your men would follow you into a war against the Griffin,” Clarke said primly. “And wars seem to be my specialty. So I would give Luna back, erase her debts, and save your people from a massacre.”

“I have more men than you,” Lexa responded darkly. “You wouldn’t stand a chance in a battle.”

“I am the Wanheda,” Clarke replied, anger lacing through her tone. “I am the Griffin; your men would fight against you if I asked them to. Your people have always been fickle, Lexa. If you make a mistake they will not hesitate to kill you. If you do not get justice for wrong acts your soul is already choosing an heir – they would consider this as a mistake, _Commander_.”

Lexa’s jawed tensed and Clarke turned around, heading for the door.

“You have an hour.”

-

They stood in a huddle in the centre of TonDC. None of the grounders got close enough to touch them, but if they had, Clarke didn’t know how well they’d defend themselves.

“Why are we here?” Octavia sighed, after half an hour of Lexa not emerging from the war tent. Clarke shot her a look.

“Because we’re getting Luna back.”

“ _We_ never had Luna in the first place,” Miller replied, for technicality’s sake. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“She’s my friend, I’m not letting her get executed.” Her other friends were quiet, before Bellamy looked over.

“The Griffin,” he said, and that was all the question necessary. Clarke sighed.

“It’s an urban legend with the grounders,” she replied, running a hand through her hair and smiling that her fingers aren’t caught in any braids. “They made it up to scare the children into doing what they’re told _; train well and the Griffin won’t be able to kill you; train well and maybe she’ll let you work for her._ ” Clarke shrugged. “Aron, one of Luna’s cousins, was amazed when he met me – he raved about all the damage I caused like it was something beautiful.”

“It’s death,” Lincoln interrupted. “It’s exerting strength and power – they’re things Trikru admire.” Clarke nodded.

“I don’t, though. They may praise me for destroying the Mountain, but I don’t.” The group is silent for a while before Monroe spoke.

“You didn’t do that alone,” she said, sympathy evident in her tone – but more than anything, making sure Clarke knows that she wasn’t carrying the burden by herself. Clarke wished she’d heard more of that over the past year; Luna just learned that she didn’t like hearing that it was her fault, and eventually stopped talking about it. “Bellamy pulled the lever with you, Monty made it work, we all stormed the Mountain – hell, even I drilled the hole to break down the door. We all did our part.”

“I didn’t,” Miller replied, raising an eyebrow. “I was chained to the wall.”

“You killed guards,” Bellamy told him, as if this was going to be some form of comfort. “You kept our people alive in there.”

“I killed guards, too,” Octavia smiled. “I went all samurai on them.” Lincoln smiled warmly at Octavia, before looking to Clarke.

“I killed Cage.” She raised her eyebrows – this, she hadn’t known. “We all did our part.” Clarke sighed anyway.

“You say all of this as if it’s some comfort,” she replied. “Like, you _wanted_ to have something to do with that massacre.” Bellamy shook his head, rolling his eyes and letting his arm drape across her shoulders.

“None of us _want_ to be killers, or to have had a role in the fall of Mount Weather. But we did. We’re saying this because you carried that by yourself – we all helped; we worked together and did what we had to do.” His smile was warm; eyes silently begging her to understand, but she already did. She’d learned not so long ago that she wasn’t the only one to take out the Mountain – but she hadn’t realised that they thought of it like that, too.

They worked together to destroy Mount Weather.

She supposed they could work together in the future, too.

-

When Lexa came out, her face was blank, impassive, a concrete wall Clarke had no urge to crack. She nodded for them to follow, and so they did; followed to a hole in the ground where Luna was sitting, bloody and bruised.

“Take her,” Lexa instructed. “Do not say I am not understanding. Take her and do not come back.” Lexa stepped back as Miller and Bellamy reached into the hole, Luna stretching up her weak arms and being pulled up. The other four stood around them, daring anyone to come and push them in. But no one did.

Lexa looked to Luna, as Miller picked her up, arms under her shoulders and knees, and glared. “You will not step foot in the Mountain again. I could have taken your entire people, for following you there – do not make that mistake again.” Miller carried her away and Clarke followed behind the group. She nodded once at Lexa, before walking through the camp, head held high.

“You came to me after the Mountain,” she said lowly to Luna as they walked.

“You’re my family,” Luna replied. “We got to the Mountain and I went inside – but it was horrible; there are still a lot of bodies on the floors. I persuaded Ahtil to go back for you.” Clarke reached out, gently squeezing her hand.

“Why?”

“Because I understood what you went through, after that.”

“Thank you,” was all she could say. Clarke looked up to the grounders, surrounding them once more. The snarls had gone; every grounder was staring now. They knew who she was and they knew of the power they thought she had. Monroe picked up her gun at the exit of the village; handing Miller’s to Octavia, and giving the pistol back to Clarke. She weighed it in her hand like she had done before she left; a pistol that had killed so many.

Was it the pistol, or was it her who had put the bullet in Dante; the man who wanted to help them but eventually sided with his own? Was it her or the pistol that shot the shooter, through Lincoln, because he wanted to kill her people, as well as Lexa’s? She remembered the gun in her hand that she had aimed at Dax; the ones during their first war with the grounders; the ones the guards held in Camp Jaha – shooting Anya, Wells shooting at the panther on their first day, Bellamy shooting Jaha. Was it the gun or them, because they could so easily rest the blame on the object without the feelings or the fear, but they took the guilt to heart; carrying it on their shoulders and in their shoes, dragging them down, pulling them to the ground instead of forward.

Why couldn’t Clarke rest the blame on the object, instead of on herself? Try as she might, she couldn’t take off the weights, hanging from her waist and drowning her in the water of her pain, of Bellamy’s pain, of Jasper’s, Maya’s, the Mountain’s.

That night she tended to Luna and left her in her mother’s care once the girl was sleeping, before going to Bellamy’s tent, instead of Raven’s. She didn’t have a bed yet because the entire time she was unsure if she would be staying; Clarke could have left at any time, she could have found herself not fitting in, not finding her place, missing the braids that adorned her hair and the spear that was a permanent fixture in her hand.

She didn’t knock at Bellamy’s tent, and walked in, finding him standing, head bowed for the ceiling, and looking up when she walked in.

“Clarke,” he said, hoarse, and she wondered what he had been thinking; what made him stand still in the middle of his tent, instead of on his bed – why he was waiting, thinking.

“You never call me Princess, anymore,” Clarke replied, her voice quiet but strong. It was dark outside and she could hear the cries of the first baby that was born to their people on the ground, only a few months beforehand.

“I thought you didn’t like that name,” he said lowly. “I thought it reminded you of Finn.” Clarke didn’t even wince this time.

“I miss that name,” she responded, swallowing.

“Do you want me to start calling you Princess again?” He asked, stepping closer, because no matter what she was saying, there was the underlying tension. It had been there for a while; in their synchronised movements, in their understanding looks; the smiles he gave her were warmer than anyone else’s and the hand on her elbow, directing her arm when she held a gun was gentler than she thought his touch were possible. She had placed her hands on his waist, twisting his body when teaching him to throw a spear properly, and felt the warmth of his skin, of his gaze, and here it was again, trained on her.

“Yes,” she replied. Then he kissed her. Their kissing was hungry, ravenous, for everything they were and wanted to be. They were one being; hands skimming skin, fingers pulling at hair, stomachs touching, clothes discarded. Light flickered in the tent, and Clarke was on her back on the furs of his bed; his mouth kissing, sucking, licking at her skin and over her scars; he stopped over them, running his tongue along the seams and whispering that she was beautiful over and over. Her eyes shut, her body tensed; legs widening to fit him in as his fingers looped through the belt loops and pulled her trousers down in one fluid motion.

Then he was back by her face, kissing a trail from her neck to her lips and Clarke whimpered into his. He pulled away and grinned; like he’d thought of something funny, hilarious, and he couldn’t wait to tell her.

“I’m making out with the Griffin,” he laughed. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“You’re about to have sex with the Griffin, so get a move on.” He ducked his head back down and the first kiss was slow, tender, beautiful, before it dissolved back into the need they’d felt before.

Clarke was and wasn’t the Griffin. She didn’t have the power, but she felt it coursing through her veins. She couldn’t fly but she soared under Bellamy’s touch, and she wasn’t a thing of legend, but a girl who simply refused to go down without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS.  
> The idea of the Griffin is something I wanted for the actual show - I was imagining how their world might be in like a season 6 scenario or something; there was a queen, she dated Murphy, it was long and difficult and I feel like it would take months to actually write it as a fan fic and then even longer to persuade anyone to read it. But the Griffin was this idea I had of Clarke suddenly becoming a legacy because of her actions - and I wanted to try and write it. I might use this idea again if I can think of how to write it better.  
> THANK YOU FOR READING. Please tell me in the comments what you're thinking and feeling; I would love to hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> AYE THANK YOU FOR READING. PLEASE CLICK THE KUDOS BUTTON AND TALK TO ME IN THE COMMENTS. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING AND FEELING ABOUT THIS FIC, ABOUT LUNA, ABOUT EVERYTHING REALLY.  
> THANKS.


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